


daisies over roses

by burlesquecomposer



Category: Free!
Genre: Alternate Universe, Florist/Tattooist AU, Florists, Kisumi is cute and lovestruck and worms his way into Sousuke's life, M/M, Sousuke is awkward tragic and grumpy, Tattoos
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-02-27
Updated: 2016-02-27
Packaged: 2018-05-23 14:07:02
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6118738
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/burlesquecomposer/pseuds/burlesquecomposer
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>“Thing is, I don’t think I’ve drawn a flower in my life aside from when you draw the little circle and loop the petals around, see?–” he shows off the page in his sketchbook where he’s drawn sad droopy flowers that would make florists and artists weep together, “and I figured, why search the internet for references when we’re right next door and I can consult a real—”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>“Hey,” Sousuke cuts in. “What do you need?”</i>
</p><p>
  <i>The man clutches his sketchbook. “Magnolias, violets, and daffodils,” he squeaks.</i>
</p><p>aka, that one florist/tattooist AU</p>
            </blockquote>





	daisies over roses

**Author's Note:**

> For SouKisu Week Day 03 - Alternate Universe.

Sousuke groans with a sound like there’s a few bits of gravel stuck in his throat.

“You’ve got to be kidding me.”

“I’m so sorry, Yamazaki-san!” Ai bows so low Sousuke thinks the poor boy might hit his nose on the floor. “I wouldn’t be leaving unless it was an emergency!”

Sousuke sighs. “It’s fine. We won’t be busy today.”

“Okay,” Ai says, nodding. He’s very out of breath, having flittered around to finish up his half-done tasks and gather his things after the phone call. Something about his mother — it didn’t sound too serious, because something too serious would probably have Ai passed out on the ground, but it’s apparently enough that he has to punch out early before hospital visiting hours end. “I promise I’ll make it up to you!”

“You’d better,” Sousuke says honestly, before he amends it with a small “Take care” mumbled hastily so as not to seem too insensitive. He’s working on it.

“I will!”

Ai weaves through the hibiscus pots, ducks under the sunflowers, and bursts out the door, clanging the bell above the door so it barely has time to ring. Sousuke counts to eight until Ai is back to tug off his apron and throw it on the counter.

And that’s how Sousuke ends up manning the front of the shop.

There’s a reason he never put “people skills” on his resume. Not like he ever needed a resume.

Luckily, it’s a Tuesday. Tuesdays turn Yamazaki Flowers into a ghost town — a colorful, sweet-smelling ghost town. He gets a secretary fetching carnations for her boss to send to his wife; a familiar woman looking for a pot of orchids to replace the dead ones; a little boy who wants a single rose which Sousuke ends up giving to him for free because the best way to deal with small children is to get them out as fast and as happy as possible. After a couple of hours on his own at the counter, Sousuke picks up the scissors and gets to trimming the tall stragglers Ai couldn’t reach.

The bell above the door jingles. Sousuke leaves it alone because if they need help they’ll ask and if they don’t need help it means less social interaction and that’s a definite plus in his book. It’s why he works in the back. He’s much better at organizing materials and stocking the cooling rooms and once in a while driving out to make the larger deliveries (deliveries are great — all he ever has to say is “sign here”). Ai is timid but much better at handling customers’ requests no matter how ridiculous they are; he grins and bears what would have Sousuke barking something regrettably harsh.

The silence goes on for so long that Sousuke forgets he has a customer. After a while, he hears more shuffling and finally emerges to see what poor soul can’t tell peonies from daisies this time. All he finds is a figure wandering by the tulips.

“Do you need help?” he says.

There’s a clatter and the figure dives behind the pots for whatever he dropped. He pops up again, bubblegum hair fluffed curly and wild about his head as he peeks over a purple horizon of pansies.

“Yes! Sorry,” he says, rising to his feet. He’s clutching a small sketchbook and a neon pink pen, but the first thing Sousuke notices are the tattoos, which he figures is intentional judging by the loose tank top that shows off two full sleeves dark with art that fades in soft tendrils into his neck and slender collar. “I, uh, I’m from next door.”

“Blue Moon Tattoo?” Sousuke ventures.

The man’s eyes go wide with surprise. “How’d you know?”

“Lucky guess.” Sousuke hangs up the scissors and towels the dirt off his hands. “What do you need?”

He quickly regrets asking.

“Oh!” the guy says, growing enthusiastic, zero to one hundred in no time. “Okay, so, my client– no, let me start off a bit earlier. So at Blue Moon we tend to specialize in some darker stuff, like Sei-kun who does a lot of solid knotwork and Gou-chan, she does mostly freehand design, traditional stuff like skulls and koi fish. Anyway, we don’t get a lot of people coming in to get flowers done, but when we _do,_ we give those jobs to Rei-chan. He’s the best we have when it comes to flowers, and he can really do them well, actually, they’re so meticulous and pretty. But Rei just quit for another job downtown because the commute’s better so now we don’t have a flower specialist—”

At this point, Sousuke is fighting down the insurmountable urge to drag his hand down his face until the skin comes off, which might be less agonizing than this.

“—so _anyway_ , we just had a client come in who wants flowers done, said she’s been to a few places and doesn’t like the art she’s been offered so far and wants to try us for something different. I do a lot of colors, watercolor and light lining like she wants, so they passed the job to me. Thing is, I don’t think I’ve drawn a flower in my life aside from when you draw the little circle and loop the petals around, see?–” he shows off the page in his sketchbook where he’s drawn sad droopy flowers that would make florists and artists weep together, “and I figured, why search the internet for references when we’re right next door and I can consult a real—”

“Hey,” Sousuke cuts in. “What do you need?”

The man clutches his sketchbook. “Magnolias, violets, and daffodils,” he squeaks.

A few minutes later, he’s at the counter with two of each and Sousuke’s behind the register with a headache. Sousuke rings him up and the guy digs into the pocket of his jeans which are awfully tight on his thin legs.

“I’m Kisumi, by the way,” he says, flashing a smile that makes his eyes crinkle in the corners. “Shigino Kisumi. Working alone today?”

“Mmn,” Sousuke responds. No need to explain the obvious. He drops the change in Kisumi’s open hand and Kisumi feeds the coins carelessly into his pocket before gathering up the flowers and his sketchbook.

“Thanks, Yamazaki-kun!”

Sousuke gives him a look.

Kisumi answers with a wink and points to the sign over the counter. “Lucky guess.”

~

Kisumi’s back only a day later, sketchbook in one hand, bouquet in the other. For once, Sousuke is cursing the fact that Ai is busy with another customer, which doesn’t seem to matter as Kisumi spots him and makes an expert beeline. “Yamazaki-kun!”

Sousuke ducks into the nearest closet and dry swallows two ibuprofen. “Did they die?” he asks.

Kisumi stops at the register. “What?”

“The flowers.”

“Oh,” he says. “No. I think they’re sucking the life from _me_ , actually.” He brings out his sketchbook before Sousuke has a chance to make up something he has to do. “I’ve had a bit of a hard time, but look! I think I did okay, pretty good for my first time, right?”

Kisumi holds up his sketchbook like a five-year-old showing off a crayon stick figure to his mom in the hopes that it’s worthy of the fridge, but Sousuke only admits on the inside how _impressed_ he is. Kisumi may be inexperienced when it comes to flowers but he seemed to pick it up as fast as he talks. The magnolias are clustered together in the middle as the violets fan out from them and the daffodils offer a radiance that haloes the image. Everything is shaded and detailed in thin lead pencil with simulated watercolor splashes spreading out, mixing together. In a surrounding banner, “For The Team” is flourished with an airy text.

“Nice,” he says, flat. “You can’t exactly return the flowers, though.”

“No, that’s not . . .” Kisumi’s shoulders sink. “My client didn’t like it. There’s something missing. She’s letting me try again, but I can’t figure it out. I need your help. You’re a florist. You do arrangements. Probably. I think. Right? Can you help me?”

Sousuke lets out a slow breath. He glances over at Ai who he realizes is looking at him, eavesdropping while his customer picks out her flowers. Ai widens his eyes pointedly at Kisumi. _Be nice?_

Sousuke thankfully feels the ibuprofen kicking in. “You’ll have to pay,” he says.

Kisumi blinks. “With what? Money?”

“With _silence_.”

Sousuke gets to work. Ai loves arranging flowers, but he tends to get overexcited and finishes off with a somewhat messy bouquet, going fast as if the flowers will die then and there. Sousuke takes his time. He knows Kisumi is watching him, glances over to see Kisumi staring intently at his hands until he gets self conscious. Kisumi’s lips are parted ever so slightly like he’s holding his breath with rapt attention and it’s the first time Sousuke has actually gotten a good look at him. His lips are a little pink and plump at the cupid’s bow so that they don’t close all the way around the glimpse he gets of Kisumi’s straight white teeth. His hair sweeps in waves over his forehead, just brushing the tips of his long lashes that cast shadows on his cheeks in this light.

Sousuke doesn’t notice that his hands have slowed to a halt until Kisumi asks, “Why’d you stop?”

Sousuke quickly returns to the bouquet, avoiding eyes like the lavender framing the windowsill that flicker up to meet his own. “You don’t have to lean on the counter,” he says, making something up. He nods his head pointedly to the left. “There’s a chair over there.”

“Oh!” Kisumi flounces over it. Sousuke hears the chair feet scrape loudly against the floor. Soon Kisumi is in his field of vision, plopped in the chair with his legs outstretched.

He’s wearing boots and flannel in summer. What a weirdo.

“Here.” Sousuke hands him an arrangement. “How’s that?”

Kisumi smiles wide, reaching over delicately like he’s scared to mess it up by touching it. He snaps a picture with his phone.

“Can we try another?”

Sousuke sighs.

~

He thinks that’s the end of it until Kisumi bursts in just before closing. Sousuke runs behind the counter to duck past Ai and mutter, “I’m not here—”

“SOU-CHAN~!”

And Sousuke would have ignored it, would have continued his attempt to hide, except Kisumi has already seen him _and_ given him a stupid nickname after having known him for a cumulative hour, _maybe._

“‘Sou-chan’? We’re not even on a first name basis,” he says, pulling off his apron a little more slowly and quirking a brow. “Wait, how’d you even get my first name?”

Ai shrugs sheepishly. “Sorry, Yamazaki-san,” he says with a wince. “He came by the other day when you were out on delivery. Was I not supposed to tell him?”

“Doesn’t matter now,” he mumbles.

Kisumi is already at the counter, sweat beading his forehead. He looks absolutely _exhausted_ and maybe a little filthy — his cheeks are rubbed with something dark. Kisumi raises his phone and flips through it; Sousuke sees that his fingers are covered in grime, ink, or both, unless he got new tattoos since he last saw him.

“We’re closing,” is all Sousuke says before the screen is shoved in his face. Kisumi is absolutely beaming; the screen and his smile are both blinding, and Sousuke has to recoil to adjust his eyes.

“Oh wow!” Ai says, standing on his tiptoes to see.

“What am I looking at?” Sousuke says, squinting. “I was there when you took this picture. Need another bouquet?”

“Nope!” Kisumi chirps. “This is the tattoo! I finished it today!”

Sousuke blinks. A little surprised, quietly impressed. He gingerly takes the phone from Kisumi’s dirty hands to get a better look.

It’s his arrangement, all right. Each flower is showcased with a bold individuality, none overtaking the bouquet entirely. Kisumi has managed to expertly weave the text banner between the spaces where the flowers meet. Watercolor spreads out the sides, bleeding out into the client’s skin.

“. . . Not bad,” he says.

“Not bad?” Kisumi pouts with a small huff. “Just ‘not bad’? I did an awesome tattoo and you know it! I think it’s pretty damn good for my first time doing flowers. My client was really happy, you know? Left a nice tip and everything.”

“Cool.” Sousuke hands the phone back and hangs up his apron. “We’re still closing.”

“Wait.”

Sousuke breathes once and pauses. Kisumi’s digging into his pockets.

“Here.”

Sousuke takes the bills from Kisumi’s hand.

“Two thousand yen?”

“For helping me out,” Kisumi says. His smile is softer now, curled up in one corner.

Sousuke hands it back. “I don’t want it.”

“I insist.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Sousuke says.

“You did! You saved me. C’mon.” Kisumi shoves the bills at him again.

“Keep it.”

“I can’t.”

“You already paid for the flowers. Keep it, Kisumi, it’s yours.”

Something sparkles a little in Kisumi’s eyes. He takes the money back, stares at it, shoves it into his pocket. He smiles again, a smile that’s more meant for himself, more reserved as he tucks his head down just a hair.

“Well, if you’re closing,” he says, scratching at the back of his neck, a suddenly uncharacteristic nervousness pouring from him in nearly visible waves. “Maybe I can get you a coffee instead? As thanks?”

Sousuke almost snorts a laugh at the fact that Kisumi thinks he’s being discreet. As if Sousuke is as oblivious as a rock.

So he’s not sure why he finds himself saying, “I like coffee.”

~

“You hate coffee.”

“I _know_ ,” Sousuke groans in a whisper. “I just, I don’t know. I couldn’t say no.”

“You’re doomed,” Rin says. Sousuke can hear him smiling. “I mean, the last time you accidentally got coffee with someone, it was understandable, she was a barista. This is different.”

“Hey, she was cute, too, it just didn’t . . . work out.”

“ _Too?_ ” Rin laughs incredulously in a way that sounds tinny over the phone. “You’re not just doomed, you’re _fucking_ doomed. You may have just crossed over into _fucked_.”

Sousuke leans against one of the stronger shelves. “Give me a break. I didn’t want his money, but he offered coffee to be nice . . . I felt bad about rejecting it. Anyone would.”

“You don’t usually show remorse for rejecting strangers. How long have you known this guy? A week? Two moon phases? Do you even know his first name? His favorite color?”

“Gave me his first name right off the bat. Kisumi. Pink is my guess.” Vaguely, Sousuke wants to know whether he dyes it or if that shade is somehow natural. _Stop thinking about his hair. Or his eyes. Or anything else._

“Look, I have to get back to practice. But I’m telling you, it’s different. Get a coffee, suck it up. I recommend a caramel macchiato for you, they’re smooth, not as bitter.”

“Think it’s too late to suggest something else?”

“What are you afraid of?”

Sousuke swallows. “Another bad one. I don’t know if I can handle that.”

There’s a pause on the other line that lasts a good twenty seconds. “Well,” Rin says, “you didn’t just say ‘yeah sure,’ you said _‘I like coffee.’_ You’re in deep, dude. You’ve gotta commit now.”

After he hangs up, Sousuke runs both hands over his face. Kisumi’s waiting out in the flower shop, bright as the goddamn sun, and what if he gets too close? Icarus fell. It’s refreshingly chill here in the back room, safe as the refrigeration creeps along the tiles under his feet, a soft icy fog curling out under the door.

Sousuke wonders whether anxiety should be frozen off or burned.

God, he really is fucked.

~

They walk. They leave Ai to lock up for the day and head out to a place Kisumi mentioned, somewhere around the corner where there’s more foot traffic. Late afternoon chill is setting in as the sun sinks further to the skyline. At this time of day, half the stores are closing, leaving a few splotches of orange light in places still open after blue dark. Sousuke shoves his hands into his pockets, deep, like he’s searching in them for something to say, but he’s only coming up with lint and bits of soil and, with any luck, Kisumi will say something first and talk enough for the both of them.

He doesn’t have to wait long.

“So, Sou-chan. What’s it like being a florist?”

“What’s your favorite flower?”

“Does your family run the flower shop?”

“How long have you been working there?”

“Did you start working there because you didn’t have anything else or do you genuinely like working there?”

Sousuke takes a deep breath. He might actually need the coffee; he wonders if the cafe will be nice enough to put whiskey in it.

“Being a florist smells nice. My favorite flowers are roses. My parents run it. I’ve been working there for a little over a year. A bit of both.”

Kisumi adds up all the questions and answers for a good few moments. Sousuke cherishes the silence. Then Kisumi tilts his head, getting a better look at him as they walk side-by-side.

“Roses?” he says. “Just roses?”

“‘Just’?” Sousuke says defensively, brow ticking once. “What’s wrong with roses?”

“Nothing, it’s just . . . Roses are kind of unoriginal, aren’t they?”

Sousuke shrugs. “They’re as original as you get. They’re traditional. They’re familiar. They smell like home.”

“Huh.” Kisumi’s eyes return to the stretch of sidewalk before them. They both stop when they reach the corner; a cafe is just across the street and Sousuke figures they’re headed there. It doesn’t seem to be crowded, which gives Sousuke a shred of relief.

“You know what flower is _my_ favorite?”

“I’m dying to hear it,” Sousuke deadpans.

“Daisies.”

“Daisies? Really?” They cross the street.

“Did you expect something more extravagant from me? More ostentatious?”

“Well, yeah.” Sousuke ducks his head. “Way more, honestly.”

“Daisies are pretty. They come in lots of colors, but I like white the best. Like you said — traditional.”

There’s hardly a comparison between a rose and a daisy. People don’t often come in asking for daisies — everyone wants roses. Standard as they are, they’re trustworthy, even with their thorns. You can say anything with roses.

When you get someone daisies, they wonder why you didn’t get them roses.

“But daisies are so plain.”

Kisumi offers a smile as he tugs open the cafe door to let him in first. “The plain flowers are just as pretty, and they need love too, don’t they?”

Sousuke tells him what he wants — what he remembers of the drink Rin told him about over the phone — and Kisumi goes up to order for them while Sousuke finds a place to sit. As empty as the place is, he nabs a table in the back corner by the window. There’s a little centerpiece in the middle, a miniature bottle filled with tiny field flowers barely a few inches tall. Sousuke is overcome with the compulsion to arrange them better, looks at his large fingers, and thinks better of it.

Kisumi returns a few minutes later and sets down their drinks. Sousuke stares at the caramel drizzle sinking into pillowy white foam and regrets his decision to blindly follow what Rin told him. Kisumi got something richer, it looks like, with a thick creamy leaf drawn elegantly into the top.

Sousuke goes for his wallet but Kisumi holds out his hand. “It’s on me, remember?”

Sousuke nods and hides into his coffee. It’s not too bitter, but in exchange it’s much too sweet. Regret remains.

“So, a bit of both?”

“Huh?”

“That’s what you said before,” Kisumi says. “When I asked if you were kind of forced to work there or if you genuinely liked it.”

“Oh.” Sousuke sits forward. “Well, my parents own it, so I grew up around it. It was easy to get the job, didn’t have to apply anywhere else, so I went with it.”

“Was there another plan?”

Sousuke can’t tell whether he likes the way Kisumi stares at him with an earnest fascination. He feels a little vulnerable under his eyes, but something’s compelling him to be honest. He says more than he means to.

“I used to be a swimmer. Never went professional, though. Shoulder injury. Didn’t heal right.”

“Ah,” Kisumi says with a nod. “I get it. I mean, not exactly, but my wrist hurts sometimes from basketball.”

“I don’t know if that compares.”

“Sorry.” Kisumi chuckles bashfully. “But I have a couple high school friends who are swimmers, if that counts for anything. One is going pro.”

“My best friend is going pro, too,” Sousuke says before he can stop himself. That just opens a whole other can of worms he’s not quite keen on discussing. Across the table, Kisumi nods, opens his mouth, closes it.

“You seem sad about that,” he says finally.

“I’m not exactly thrilled that I’m limited by something I couldn’t control.” Sousuke locks his jaw and swallows. “And I’d rather you not play therapist on our first date.”

Kisumi perks up like a dog.

“Date?”

“Oh god.”

“ _First_ date?”

“Shut up.”

Kisumi snorts and then he laughs, loud and clear as a bell, shaking in his chair with it. His eyes crinkle and his smile is wide, so wide, like his laughter will swallow Sousuke whole.

“Don’t think about it, okay?” he says, waving a hand. “Enough talk about sad personal things or crushed dreams or the potential romance budding between us.”

Sousuke snorts.

“So,” Kisumi says, “let’s just enjoy ourselves. How does that sound?”

Sousuke’s eyes wander to Kisumi’s tattoos. There are so many crammed together along his arms, taking up both outside and inside even on the parts of skin that won’t normally be seen. And then, before he knows it, his eyes are back on Kisumi’s, and there’s a blue hint to the lavender that he hadn’t noticed before.

“Yeah,” he says. “Sounds good.”

“Excellent.”

Sousuke coughs a little. “So, uh. Are there any sad personal things or crushed dreams or potential budding romances involved, or can I ask about your tattoos?”

Kisumi grins.

~

Clinging to his left shoulder is a pink and purple octopus, its tentacles wrapped in swirls around his arm and suctioned to his collarbone. Traditional waves splash and curl around it, flowing down his arm to the elbow where they bleed into yet another — a watercolor splatter coupled with a black ring like the condensation that a cold drink leaves on a tabletop. The tattoos end with a silhouetted forest closing around his wrist.

On the right, a blown dandelion crosses over the shoulderblade. Peacock feathers cover the round of it, melting into blue and white daisies that push further still into clustered cherry blossom branches where three birds are perched. A fox, feet lit with fire, scampers over his forearm, its tail smooth and trailing off the inside. At his wrist are a few thin shapes — moon phases.

Kisumi twists about and pulls his shirt in various ways to show off each tattoo. Most of them don’t mean anything, he says. He just likes how they look, enjoys adding art after art to himself, caring little about whether the images go together. Still, there’s a cohesiveness to them that surprises Sousuke. The colors blend like complementary rainbows, as bright and as bold as Kisumi himself.

“And the birds there?”

Kisumi looks down at his right arm, as if he’s forgotten what’s there. “Oh. Each one is part of my family. See?” He points. “My mom there, my dad here, and the smaller one, on the highest branch, is my little brother Hayato.”

Somewhere along the way, Sousuke and Kisumi have switched drinks. Kisumi’s is a little more bitter, which he’s okay with, and Sousuke’s is sweeter which Kisumi doesn’t seem to mind. Sousuke sips at his, reaching near the bottom.

“Does your family approve?” Sousuke asks.

“Of tattooing?” Kisumi chuckles, his hands coming around the cup of coffee that’s cold by now. “Honestly, they don’t really care what I do. I don’t go home much except to visit Hayato. Hayato’s my tattoo test. If he likes it, I get it.”

“Are you ever going to stop getting more?”

“Maybe,” Kisumi says. “When I run out of ideas, you know? Until then, my body is a temple that I get to decorate whenever I want.”

“Huh.” It’s all Sousuke can say. He doesn’t really get tattoos, finds it odd that anyone would be able to conjure up something, an image, a piece of art, that they would want to have on their body forever. He imagines he would get bored of it one day, or that the art would change its meaning eventually and it wouldn’t be the same as it once was, and what’s the point of that?

“What would you get?”

Sousuke quirks a brow curiously.

“If you got a tattoo, I mean. Any tattoo. What would you get?”

“I wouldn’t.”

“Oh, come on,” Kisumi says, crossing his arms over the table. “Not one? No flowers? No constellations? Zodiac? I bet you’re a Cancer.”

“Virgo, actually.” Sousuke shrugs, swirling around in his cup what’s left of the coffee. “I just haven’t thought about it.”

“What comes to mind?”

Sousuke smiles a little without meaning to. “I’ll let you know when something does.”

Kisumi grins like he wants to speak but seems to decide on holding it back.

Someone at the counter makes an announcement — Sousuke realizes then that they’re the only ones left in the cafe. It’s been hours, probably. They’re closing in fifteen.

“Let’s go?”

“Yeah.”

They head back, where there’s one lone moped, a shiny turquoise, parked at the street outside of Blue Moon. Kisumi heads for it right away, unlocking it from the street lamp and freeing the helmet.

“Where’s your ride?” Kisumi asks. “Need a lift?”

Sousuke snorts. “As much as I’d _love_ to hold your waist and set off with you,” he says sarcastically, “I’m here. Second floor of the shop.”

Kisumi blushes, bashful. “Makes sense, I guess.”

Silence falls. It’s evening now. Nothing is open except a dimly lit liquor store down the street. Time has passed so quickly with Kisumi there to fill in the spaces, but now they both seem at a loss for words. Sousuke’s eyes find the sidewalk and latch to it, finding it suddenly fascinating. Only the sounds of Kisumi mounting his moped and donning his helmet, which can hardly contain the wild volume of his hair, are heard between them.

Kisumi looks like he’s about to leave, then stops.

“Was this a date?” he asks carefully, his voice rising with hope.

Sousuke figures he may as well be honest. “I don’t know.”

“Do you want it to be?”

Sousuke mentally flips through past relationships, past flings, past crushes. All bad, all unfortunate, all his fault, probably. He wonders if Kisumi will be different. He wonders if he can get through this mostly unattached. He hasn’t had a good track record with that, so far.

“I’m trying to figure that out,” he says finally.

Kisumi offers a smile. “Well, if you ever do, I’m always next door.”

Next thing he knows, Kisumi is a bright blue shape at the end of the street, a soft light that illuminates the ground before him, and then he’s speeding around the corner and gone, gone. Sousuke scrolls through several texts from Rin as he heads inside. He knows he wants to hang out in the back room for a while where it’s cold, familiar, safe, where he can decompress and call Rin and organize his thoughts, but finds himself passing it by on his way upstairs because he just went on a maybe-date with someone for the first time in at least a year and he didn’t hate it — not even the coffee.

**Author's Note:**

> This has been sitting in my google drive for a while. Not sure yet if I'm going to finish it or where exactly I would take it. Let me know if y'all want more!


End file.
